


In Another Life: Finding Home

by LegendsofMerlin



Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Exploration of past trauma, Gawain Lives, Gawain is basically a saint, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Lancelot adjusting to his new life, Lancelot's continued crisis of faith™ (it gets resolved), Lancelot's internalized homophobia (it gets resolved), Lancelot's thought process is verrry twisted, M/M, Some serious quality cuddling (because everyone could use a hug), tree-hugging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:26:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25809580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LegendsofMerlin/pseuds/LegendsofMerlin
Summary: (Lancelot and Gawain, post Season 1) Two Fey meet again. One is in his second life, the other in his third. One has been the greatest protector of its people, the other its most dangerous enemy.Their world is different now. Everything else remains to be seen.
Relationships: Gawain | The Green Knight & Squirrel | Percival (Cursed), Gawain | The Green Knight/The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed), Pym/Red Spear | Guinevere (Cursed), Squirrel | Percival & The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)
Comments: 66
Kudos: 177





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The show drew me in and was over too quickly, so thankfully there's fanfiction to continue it. 
> 
> Also, it's such a nice change to be there for the start of a fandom. I've never been among the first 100 fics posted so I guess there's a first time for everything.

The Weeping Monk—Lancelot, his inner voice supplied—stared into the landscape. They were progressing slowly, two people on a horse that was growing more and more exhausted from the long ride. Soon, they would have to stop again, to rest.

Lancelot was determined to deliver his charge to the Fey before they could board their ships and leave the land forever. It was a risky plan but the only way to keep the boy safe long-term.

He had kept away from the main roads that he would find his Brothers—former Brothers, his inner voice corrected himself—on. It was a different experience, using his tracking abilities to evade someone, not find them. The change unsettled him.

The Monk was lost in a way he hadn’t been since he had been taken from his people. In those long weeks afterward, when the Truth had been beaten into him. Finally accepting it had been a welcome change, for at least it meant he had a purpose.

The boy in front of him who had fallen asleep somewhere along the way stirred awake. Lancelot braced himself for another round of questions.  
  


* * *

  
Gawain awoke covered in flowers and plants. Picking the greenery off of him, he looked around as he tried to remember what had happened. He was in a tent and it was almost eerily quiet around him. Carefully, Gawain got up as his memory returned.

His capture. The torture at the hands of the blind Paladin. His conversation with the Weeping Monk. And… Squirrel? Gawain sighed, hoping beyond hope that the little boy was alright. He placed one careful step in front of the other, surprised by the absence of pain. Upon touching his chest that had been burned, Gawain found the skin smooth. Something had healed him.

He knelt next to the plants. ‘Thank you,’ he whispered. The plants disappeared back into the earth. Gawain walked to the body nearest to him who was dressed as a knight of King Uther and grabbed the dead man’s weapons.

Carefully, Gawain peered outside the tent. The sun was high in the sky. The ground was littered with bodies, both belonging to King Uther and the Church. Gawain listened for a bit longer before daring to step outside. Not a single soul was around.

This was most irregular. After a battle was over, the dead would always be recovered from the field and given a proper burial, not left to rot in the sun. Given that both of the parties were enemies of the Fey, their departure from custom was an ill omen for his brethren. Gawain decided to forego caution and make his way to the shore as quickly as possible. He found a horse grazing near a tent and mounted it.

From his higher vantage point, he still didn’t see a single person. “Squirrel?” Gawaine dared to semi-shout while riding through the tents but received no response. When he stopped by the tent that the Paladins called the Kitchen, he took a glance inside but found nobody in there. He wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or even more concerned than before. At the very least, there wasn’t a body in there so the Paladins must have taken Squirrel with them whenever they left.

As much as Gawain hated it, he knew that he couldn’t wait around to search the nearby woods for Squirrel, on the off-chance that the boy might have somehow escaped his captors. The Fey’s survival was at stake and all their enemy’s force would be directed towards his peoples’ gathering place.

Gawain had to trust that Squirrel, should he have escaped, would be able to avoid capture and keep himself alive for long enough that they could go back and get him. It was most likely that he would find Squirrel with the Paladins—who were probably moving towards the shore, to mount an attack on the Fey. The best thing he could do for the boy right now was to secure the survival of his people.

With those thoughts, Gawain spurred on his horse.  
  


* * *

  
The Monk stopped his horse, taking in the carnage in front of him: bodies were strewn everywhere but the only ones still moving appeared to belong to the Fey and Raiders. Recalling Father’s plan he had overheard, the Monk realized that the Paladin’s ally, Cumber, had failed. He did not know how to feel about that so he decided to focus on the more immediate: the boy’s safety.

That’s when the familiar scent of a Fey hit the Monk. The wind was blowing towards the shore, so whoever it was must be behind him. He turned his horse around and saw a figure on a horse emerging from the woods. As he came nearer, the Monk realized why his scent had seemed so familiar: this was the Green Knight.

Upon seeing the Monk, the Green Knight drew his sword. Lancelot stared at him before slowly raising his arms. While he knew that he was virtually unbeatable, this was not the time to engage in a fight. All he wanted was to safely deliver the boy and this Fey might be his best chance of achieving that.

The Green Knight moved closer: “Are you here as a friend or a foe?”

“He’s a friend!” The little boy in front of Lancelot exclaimed and jumped off the horse, racing towards the Green Knight.

Lancelot observed as the Green Knight’s face lit up in wonder. “You’re alive!”

“He saved me.” Percival gestured in Lancelot’s direction.

“Is that right?” The Green Knight addressed Lancelot.

Lancelot bowed his head and gave a slight nod. “He is just a boy.” When he lifted his head again, the Green Knight had an inscrutable look on his face. Lancelot felt like the other was boring into the very depth of his soul, or whatever was left of it. It felt burning and hot and altogether uncomfortable.

After what felt like a lifetime, the Green Knight eventually nodded. “I knew you would come around.” He put his sword away and rode up to him. “Welcome, Brother.” He extended a hand in Lancelot’s direction.

Stunned, it took Lancelot a few long moments before he could copy the gesture. The Green Knight’s hand was rough, calloused, warm. Lancelot both felt like he was getting burned and like he never wanted to let go. Eventually, the Green Knight released his hand and Lancelot felt like he could breathe again.

“This does not undo what you did,” the Green Knight continued, his eyes full of strength but devoid of hatred, “but I meant what I said. You are our brother and you could be our greatest warrior.”


	2. Chapter 2

Having located Arthur, Gawain was ready to tie up the horses and climb down to the beach. There was just one problem. He turned to the Monk who was standing next to him: “I will have to handcuff you.”

“What? No!” Squirrel protested, loudly.

“I have to, little one,” Gawain said.

“He saved me. He is a…,” Squirrel paused, glancing at the Monk, “a _good_ person.” Squirrel glared at Gawain who felt a bit sick to his stomach upon hearing the boy’s declaration. In their conversation in the tent, the Green Knight had seen enough to know that the Monk wasn’t a monster, just someone very broken who had done truly terrible things. But calling him a good person? That was going much too far.

Help came from an unexpected source. “I seem to recall,” the rough voice of the Monk interrupted the two of them, “that just a bit ago you called me scum.” He held out his hands in Gawain’s direction, nodding his assent. Not that it was needed. Gawain did what he had to do to keep his people safe. And in this case, tying up the Monk was for his own protection.

Using some material he cut from his horse’s rope, he turned towards the other. An almost imperceptible flinch—so small that it would have escaped a lesser trained man—passed the Monk’s face when Gawain touched his wrist. ‘Interesting,’ the Green Knight noted to himself as he loosely wrapped the rope around the other man’s wrists.

“You… you changed,” Squirrel protested.

The Monk looked to the ground. “The past has not.”

“Done,” Gawain turned to Squirrel. “I will present him as my prisoner. Do you understand?”

Squirrel shook his head. “No.” Tears filled his eyes. “He’s wounded.”

Gawain gave Lancelot a once-over. Injuries weren’t what he had been concerned about earlier but now that Squirrel mentioned it, he could see that the Monk wasn’t faring well, despite how good he was at hiding his injuries.

The Monk cleared his throat. “It’s nothing.”

Gawain shot him a look that made it clear where he stood on the matter, then dropped to his knees in front of the boy. “Do you want to see him hurt again?” He waited for Squirrel’s predictable headshake before continuing: “Someone will try to hurt him if he just walks down the beach with us. If I present him as my prisoner who turned himself over to me and who is not to be harmed, my reputation will protect him.”

Ignoring the wide-eyed look on the Monk’s face, Gawain gave Squirrel a light shake. “Do you understand?” Squirrel nodded. “Good.” He gestured towards the beach. “Why don’t you go ahead to Arthur and let him know that I have captured the Weeping Monk?” With Nimue nowhere to be seen, he assumed that Arthur had led the Fey in his absence. Squirrel started rushing towards the beach and Gawain called after him: “And find us a healer.”

Given his tied hands, Gawain stayed close to the Monk, in case he lost his balance on the steep and uneven territory. As it turned out, his concern was unfounded. Even heavily injured, tired, and handcuffed, the other Fey possessed a natural grace that kept him from stumbling.

“How did you get so good?” Gawain’s treacherous mouth asked before he could stop himself.

The Monk stopped, as if frozen in place. Slowly, he turned around and met Gawain’s eyes. “ _Good_?”

Recalling Squirrel’s earlier comment, an embarrassed blush threatened to spread on Gawain’s face. To remedy the awkward situation, he clarified: “How you fight. How you move. How did you get so good?”

For a few moments, the Monk didn’t answer. Just when Gawain was ready to move on, he supplied: “Father trained me to be their weapon.” He shrugged. “God does not respond to my prayers. Fighting, moving, tracking… those were the only things I was good at.” With those words, he turned back around.

Gawain fell back a few steps so he could watch the Monk who moved as smoothly as a cat across the uneven domain. As the leader of the Fey army, the Green Knight had trained many. He could appreciate the art of movement, no matter where he found it. For a short moment, the realization dawned on him that it might be more than just that but he squashed the thought firmly back into the deep recesses of his mind. The one in front of him was not just any Fey. He was part of the reason so few of them were left. And no amount of grace or smoothness could undo that… in fact, these traits had made him a more effective killer of his own kind.

They had arrived closer to the beach so Gawain grabbed the other man’s shoulder in the gesture of dominance needed to pass the Fey’s most feared enemy off as a prisoner. His brain unhelpfully supplied that the timing was rather convenient. Before Gawain could remind the Monk to play his role, the other had already dropped his shoulders and fixed his eyes on the ground. The smooth transition to such a submissive gesture made Gawain’s stomach drop. It felt too practiced to just be attributable to quick thinking on the Monk’s part.

“Remember, you are _pretending_ to be my prisoner.” He loosened his grip on the Monk’s shoulder, hoping that that together with his intonation would convey that this was a charade for the other’s benefit. The Monk responded with a mute nod and kept his eyes trained on the ground. Gawain sighed and decided that this could wait for another day. For now, his more immediate concern was to get the Monk to safety and have him checked out by a healer.

“Ready?” Gawain turned towards the Monk who seemed to have lost what little speaking ability he had before. The other nodded. “This won’t be pleasant,” Gawain warned. His comment was met with a snort. Upon turning towards the Monk, he noticed that the man’s mouth was curled in a smile.

“I can handle myself, Green Knight,” the Monk responded.

“Good,” Gawain responded. He moved to stand right in front of the Monk. “We need to remove your hood,” he said in response to the obvious question in the man’s eyes.

“My… hood?” The Monk’s voice sounded small. If Gawain didn’t know who this person in front of him was, he would have identified the emotion on his face as fear.

“Yes.” Gawain paused, before adding in a sympathetic voice, “it will be more believable if I drag you by your hair.” The Green Knight asked himself why he felt the need to sound apologetic. After all, standing in front of him was the Weeping Monk. He deserved much, much worse than a little hair-pulling.

The Monk nodded and lifted his bound hands, trying to remove the hood. “Let me,” Gawain said and stepped closer. The Monk stood perfectly still as Gawain reached up to remove his hood, revealing brown hair and a face that looked much younger when it wasn’t hidden in the shadows.

It took Gawain a moment to regain his breath. The Fey in front of him was beautiful. But that wasn’t what took his breath away. It was seeing the worst nightmare of his people, unmasked, and finding something that looked more frightened than frightening. 

Gawain took advantage of the unprecedented opportunity to study the marks of a member of the Ash Folk when their eyes met. Noticing how close they stood, Gawain took a hasty step back. “Let’s go,” he said, gruffly.   
  


* * *

  
Upon being half-dragged by his hair across the beach to the shouts of “traitor, traitor,” Lancelot realized that he had been overly optimistic about his ability to deal with the situation. It wasn’t just the lack of his hood that shielded him from the world. It was more than just feeling exposed.

Sometime between the tent conversation with Gawain and rescuing the boy, something had shifted within him. Just a few weeks ago, the situation in front of him wouldn’t have fazed him. The Fey who shouted at him would have been nothing to him, nothing other than prey. The insult hurled at him wouldn’t have touched him. He had been called something much much worse than a traitor—a demon, a devil, an abomination.

Numbness had its pleasant side effects and Lancelot had carefully cultivated it. But now, somehow, it began to fail him. And from being exposed to the cold for long periods of time, Lancelot knew how much it hurt when the numbness left and life returned to his limbs.

To distract himself from what was happening, Lancelot kept his eyes firmly on the ground, internally reciting Bible verses Father had made him learn by heart. It didn’t help, it just reminded him of their last conversation and how he had asked Father if he loved him. Lancelot knew what the long pause before his answer had meant. All these years and he had just been a tool for the Paladin.

He wondered if the Green Knight would do the same to him that Father Carden had done. While he could appreciate the other man’s reasoning, he felt like a tool right now, being paraded around like a misbehaving dog. Back when he had seen the Green Knight in Brother Salt’s Kitchen, when he had kept Lancelot’s secret despite being tortured (a stark contrast to Father’s threat that Lancelot would burn alongside him, if it ever came to that), he had felt something warm blossoming in his heart.

Something he hadn’t experienced in a long time and something he didn’t deserve. Now that that feeling was being crushed, Lancelot recognized it for what it was: hope.

As if he could read his mind, the Green Knight moved closer to him. “We’re almost there,” he whispered. Lancelot wondered why he had said that. Was it a threat? Was that why the Green Knight gave his shoulder a quick squeeze before resuming to drag him along? It was very confusing to the Monk so he decided on doing what he did best: let himself be led.

And so he stood, head bowed, as the Fey next to him talked to the man he referred to as Arthur about his fate. He stood, as the Green Knight described the many ways he could be of use to them. And he allowed himself to be led into one of the nearby caves. The scent of Fey that reached Lancelot’s nostrils was almost overwhelming.

“Out, everyone,” the Green Knight shouted and Lancelot could hear the scattering of feet. Eventually, the Green Knight let go of him and said: “You can sit.” He let himself drop on the ground and Lancelot followed suit. The Green Knight turned towards him: “How are you feeling?”

Lancelot shrugged. He glanced at the Fey next to him, studying him, reading him. He was good at understanding those who had power over him. It’s what had allowed him to survive. But what he saw in the other's expression was something he couldn’t read.

The Green Knight reached over and removed the rope around Lancelot’s wrists, accidentally touching his skin in the process. Lancelot felt a shiver going down his spine. This was something he wasn’t used to.

“A healer should be here any moment,” the Green Knight continued. Before Lancelot had a chance to protest, he continued: “No, you are not fine. I know battle wounds when I see them. We need to get these treated.”

“Why would anyone want to treat me?” It was a serious question.

The Green Knight sighed before positioning himself in front of Lancelot. “I have said it before and I will say it again: you are one of us.” He paused before pointing outside. “Do you think they would have called Father Carden a traitor?” Lancelot shook his head which started to spin with the implications. “Besides,” the Green Knight continued, “even without all that, they’d treat you for me.”

“For… you?” Lancelot hated how weak his voice sounded but he had resigned himself to feeling vulnerable. Something about the Green Knight’s presence did that to him. The other man hadn’t just pulled down his hood, he had also removed other layers Lancelot had carefully build around himself and that he only now noticed due to their absence.

“They respect me. I want you to live a long life so they will treat you,” the Green Knight concluded, “for me.”

“You want me to live?” Lancelot had no idea how he should react to the revelation. “Do you think you will have a use for me?” It was the only logical reason the Green Knight might be invested in his longevity.

When the Green Knight turned towards him, Lancelot seemed to sense some sadness in his eyes: “Not everything is about usefulness, Monk.”

“Lancelot.” He responded without thinking.

“Lancelot,” the Green Knight repeated. “I am Gawain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I saw some interesting discussion in this fandom about how Lancelot shouldn't be let off the hook so quickly for all the terrible things he has done. While I agree with holding characters accountable and wouldn't assume anyone to quickly get over their rightful feelings of anger towards the Weeping Monk, it's also seems clear that Lancelot has been broken and brainwashed at the hands of Father Carden. He has victimized others and yet he is also a victim himself (unlike Carden who mostly just seems to be a jerk). 
> 
> I also think canon Gawain would be willing to build a bridge to Lancelot and might be quicker to forgive him than other characters, both due to his loyalty to his people (which includes "even the lost ones") and as a matter of military strategy. 
> 
> He seems to see that Lancelot suffers from what we might call Stockholm Syndrome today ("What have they done to you?"), doesn't see Lancelot above redemption ("You could be our greatest warrior") and still sees him as one of them ("Your people need you."). 
> 
> In short, I don't think he would threaten all the potential Lancelot has for helping his people survive by making him feel even more guilty than he already feels.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your lovely comments! I really appreciate it.

The healer didn’t come. Lancelot closed his eyes, overwhelmed with the entire situation, the smell of Fey around him, the changes. He hadn’t felt this lost in a long time.

“Lancelot,” the voice of the Green Knight, no, _Gawain_ , interrupted him. Lancelot opened his eyes and once again took in the dark cave around him. “So many are wounded. Our healer must be very busy.” Gawain crouched nearer to him. “Let me see if I can treat your wounds in her stead.”

Lancelot felt a rising sense of panic. It had been bad enough to lose his hood. He didn’t wish to also discard his clothes. “I don’t need treatment.”

“You keep on saying that,” Gawain said, stopping his advance in Lancelot’s direction, “but we both know that is not true.” He paused. “So what is going on?” Lancelot pressed his lips together, remaining silent. “Come on, let me help.”

“I don’t deserve help.” The words burst out of him before he could think. Horrified at the show of emotion, Lancelot sunk in deeper into himself.

“Why not?” Gawain sat next to Lancelot, very carefully placing a hand on the other’s knee.

Barely audible, Lancelot continued: “God hates me, my Brothers hate me, my…,” he stopped.

“My…?” Of course, the Green Knight couldn’t let it go.

Defeated, Lancelot continued: “… my… my people hate me. Father was right. I am an abomination.” He slumped further down.  
  


* * *

  
Gawain sighed. He had faced armies of King and Church, but somehow this seemed like his most impossible task yet.

“Lancelot,” he said, “look at me.” He kept himself from reaching out and reaching the other’s chin. It wouldn’t do to press him. Instead, Gawain tried to approach Lancelot like a spooked animal. Eventually, Lancelot looked up, his ash marks barely visible in the dark cave. The eye contact did something strange to Gawain’s stomach, something that he wasn’t keen to investigate.

Gawain searched within himself for the right words: “You may be many things, Lancelot. You’re Fey, you were the Weeping Monk… but the one thing you are not is an abomination.” Slowly, slowly, to give Lancelot plenty of advance warning, Gawain advanced his right hand in the direction. The other made no attempt to withdraw so Gawain gently placed his hand above Lancelot’s. “Do you hear me?” He stroked Lancelot’s hand. “You are not an abomination.”

He got so lost in the situation that he wouldn’t have heard Pym advancing, were it not for Lancelot’s rapid jerk that alerted him to her approach. “At long last, a healer!” He got up to give Pym a hug. She stiffened a bit which was unusual for her. Gawain attributed it to Lancelot’s presence.

“Well, given the patient, the Fey decided to send their very best,” Pym responded. Gawain wasn’t sure if it was a joke, a barb, or something in between.

“You are not giving yourself enough credit,” Gawain responded.

“That’s right. I’m the only Fey healer who can put up with Raiders,” the redhead responded. “Apparently that qualifies me for this.” She looked down at Lancelot who was still sitting on the ground.

“He’s Fey,” Gawain explained. “And he saved Squirrel.”

“I know,” Pym sighed. “He wouldn’t shut up about it. I only managed to keep him away by threatening that I wouldn’t treat…,” the paused, clearly searching for the right words, “…the patient in his presence.”

They were interrupted by a gruff voice: “How is the boy?”

A look of surprise passed across Pym’s face: “He’s doing fine. Helps with bringing water to the wounded.” She gestured at Lancelot. “We need to get him closer to the light. I can barely see here.”

At her words, Lancelot made an effort to get up. Before he could help himself, Gawain had extended a hand in this direction. Lancelot paused for a moment, searched for Gawain’s eyes, before taking the proffered hand.

“Gawain, get us some fresh water,” Pym said.

Unsure, Gawain looked between her and Lancelot who seemed genuinely shocked. “Can’t you find someone else to get you water?”

Pym huffed but turned to leave, all the while shouting for help with fresh water.

When she was out of earshot, Lancelot said: “I wouldn’t have hurt her.”

“I know,” Gawain stated, “I’m not staying here because I am concerned about her.”

At this, Lancelot looked even more surprised. Gawain mused that he seemed completely unaware of the pleading look his face had taken on when Pym had made her request.  
  


* * *

  
“Oh.” Pym stared at Lancelot’s back. “That…,” she stopped herself, “… that definitely needs treatment.” She exchanged a look with Gawain who was feeling more and more alarmed. They had already treated Lancelot’s more immediate injuries before Pym had instructed her patient to turn around.

“Those aren’t battle wounds,” Gawain internally cursed at himself for stating the obvious. He turned to Pym, “how would you treat this?”

Pym reached into her healer’s bag. “I would clean them with fresh water, then put this ointment on there.” She held out a jar in Gawain’s direction.

“I can do that,” Gawain said. “You can go and take care of others who are wounded.”

Pym nodded and picked up her healer’s bag. Just as she was about to turn away, Lancelot said, quietly: “Thank you.”

“I will check on your wounds again tomorrow,” the healer said, before leaving Gawain and Lancelot alone.

Gawain grabbed a somewhat clean piece of cloth and dunked it into a bucket of water before carefully cleaning the wounds in front of him. He wanted to ask Lancelot where they were coming from but knew that it would be better to keep silent. Unfortunately, the silence meant that he was alone in his thoughts, which increasingly seemed to go in directions he didn’t want to have them go into. For one thing, he noticed that he is starting to feel irrationally protective of Lancelot.

Being the Green Knight of course meant that he was protective of all his people. But this, this was a different level, particularly considering that they had just met. And that Lancelot was responsible for what could only be described as Arthur’s mercy-killing of Bergerum. Gawain sighed upon thinking of his former lover. Whatever was between them had ended a long time ago, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt. 

“What?” Lancelot turned around.

“Nothing,” Gawain responded. Knowing that his answer had come to fast, he added: “I’m just thinking of someone I have lost.”

“I am sorry.” Lancelot sounded genuine.

Gawain couldn’t tell whether his sentence was supposed to convey sympathy… or if Lancelot was apologizing for something that he—rightfully so—assumed to be his fault. “That does not bring him back,” Gawain said, applying just a bit too much pressure on Lancelot’s wounds.

They fell back into an uncomfortable silence.

“Who… who was he to you?” Lancelot sounded like he always did, like someone who wasn’t used to speaking.

Gawain let go of the cloth. He was pretty much done anyway and this wasn’t the sort of conversation he wanted to have while touching the other. “My first love.” He grabbed the ointment that Pym had left and unscrewed the lid.

“Oh.” Lancelot fell silent again while Gawain started applying the ointment to his back, desperately wishing that he was elsewhere. “That’s…,” he trailed of.

“Go on!” Gawain said, barely containing the fieriness in his voice.

He other seemed to have picked up on his mood, for he spoke very quietly: “Father had opinions about that.”

“I bet he did.” Gawain said, grimly, before concentrating on the task at hand. He made good headway before the other spoke again.

“Did… did I kill him?”

Gawain let go of the others back as if he had burned him. “You might as well have.”

Lancelot stopped talking for the remainder of the day while Gawain escorted him around, gradually easing the prisoner ruse as the Fey got slightly more used to having the newcomer around. Gawain had arranged Lancelot’s hair so that it would cover the cross that had been carved into his head and told him to lose the Monk’s cloak. While everyone was still uneasy around him—and would probably be for a long time to come—they could now clearly see the marks on his face that identified them as one of their own. It had also helped that Squirrel had run around and told everyone who wanted to listen—and those who didn’t which was the majority—how the Weeping Monk had risked his life to rescue him from the Red Paladin. 

Still, even though the shouts had stopped, Gawain wouldn’t let Lancelot walked around camp without an escort anytime soon… both to not upset the Fey who were already on edge after everything that had happened and to ensure that Lancelot would be safe. Given that nobody wanted to be around the one who had hunted them like prey, the task of keeping Lancelot company fell exclusively on Gawain. It was only a step up from the torture he had had to endure at Brother Salt’s hands, and Gawain didn’t know if it was made worse or better by the other’s silence.

It was only when they were getting ready for the night in the Fey’s new makeshift camp—courtesy of tents and other supplies they had taken from Cumber’s defeated troops—that Lancelot spoke again.

“If I could undo it, I would.” He paused for so long that Gawain thought he had finished: “If it makes you feel better, I will burn in hell for it.”

Gawain, who had set up his bedroll next to the other, glanced over: “Is that what they taught you?”

Lancelot shook his head. “No.” He turned his back onto Gawain and busied himself with straightening out his blanket.

“Is that what you believe?”

Lancelot paused, looking over his shoulder at Gawain. “I am starting to.”

Gawain sighed and sat up: “Listen, Brother.” He reached out and gently touched Lancelot’s shoulder. It was the first time he had touched the other since their time in the cave. “I have it on good authority that there is no hell.”

“How would you know?” Lancelot sounded almost indignant. With interest, Gawain realized that this was the most alive he had experienced the other man so far.

“I died.” Gawain laid back down. “No hell.” He paused. “No heaven, either. Just a beautiful garden filled with people we love and our ancestors.”

The expected protest didn’t come. Instead, Lancelot’s face had taken on an almost reverent look. “That… that sounds nice.” He paused. “I’m the last of my kind. Perhaps I shall find the others in the afterlife.”

His words hit Gawain in the gut and he felt almost guilty for his previous anger towards Lancelot who seemed to have lost more than anyone else. He didn’t know what to say so he settled for “Good night.” He blew out the candle before sinking into an uneasy sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

Lancelot laid awake in the dark, staring at the tent’s ceiling. Nothing made sense in his world anymore. He didn’t even know where to begin to unravel the recent events that started when the Fey who was currently asleep behind him had helped him discover that he was one of them.

One of them. Lancelot wanted to run from that realization but it was true nonetheless. He was one of them. And now, that he was no longer hunting them, his last chance at salvation was probably gone. But then again, he had never had the stomach for doing some of the things his Paladin Brothers had done. If killing Fey children was required for salvation, then he had foregone his chance a long time ago.

He suppressed a sigh, not wanting to awake Gawain. There was one scenario he feared above all others: that all he had been taught by Father could be wrong. That there was no God or that God was very different from what his Brothers believed and wouldn’t condone what Father called a necessary cleansing of the land.

Because the implication of that would be just too terrible. It would mean that he had killed his own for no reason, that not a single soul had been saved in the process. Gawain’s latest comment about what had happened to him after death supported that hypothesis. For if someone like Gawain—who was Fey, who had killed men of the Church, and who had been with at least one male (yet another thought Lancelot did not want to examine further)—didn’t end up in hell, then perhaps there really wasn’t a hell.

Which meant all the killing, all the death, all the destruction had been for nothing.

What if the Fey didn’t need to be cleansed? What if there was nothing wrong with them? What would that say about what he had done?

The former monk balled his hand into a fist and shoved it into its mouth. He wanted to scream.  
  


* * *

  
Gawain awoke in the middle of the night to distressed noises. It took him a moment to recall why someone was lying next to him who made those sounds and seemed to suffer from an extremely bad nightmare.

When the knight recalled who that person was, he sighed. _Lancelot._

Gawain felt a pang of sympathy upon noticing just how distressed the other Fey seemed to be. Then he felt angry about his feelings of sympathy for someone who was, for all extents and purposes, a murderer. And that wasn’t even the worst of it, Gawain’s brain unhelpfully reminded himself. He didn’t just feel sympathy for the other man, he would… under the right circumstances…

The knight bolted to a sitting position before he could pursue that particular train of thought any further. Whatever he felt obviously had nothing to do with the other man. It had just been too long since he had been with someone in that way, and Lancelot just so happened to be the person next to him.

Disgruntled, Gawain contemplated how the Weeping Monk had been the bane of his existence ever since he had taken up the mantle of the Green Knight. Who would have thought that he would continue to be the bane of his existence even after defecting to their side—and sleeping next to Gawain?

The Fey warrior balled his fist together as he wondered what to do. Should he try and wake Lancelot? Let him sleep?

Upon noticing just how much the other was twisting and turning, Gawain decided to wake him up. With how much the other was moving, he risked aggravating some of his wounds.

Carefully, Gawain crawled over to Lancelot, gently putting his hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Hey, Lancelot,” he said. “Lancelot!”

Eventually, Lancelot seemed to come to his senses. “Where am I?” He sat up.

“With me, Gawain.”

“The Green Knight,” Lancelot sighed. “It’s all true then.” He let himself fall back to the ground. “Oh God, what have I done?”

Gawain held his breath, not knowing how to respond. After a while, he heard tiny sobs coming from the person next to him.

The knight wrestled with himself for what felt like an eternity. When the sobs didn’t subside, he eventually leaned in Lancelot’s direction, asking cautiously: “Lancelot?” The other man didn’t respond. “Lancelot?” Gawain moved closer, having made up his mind. He reached out to Lancelot’s arm, softly stroking it. The sobs increased.

Cursing his inability to keep his distance, Gawain laid down next to the other Fey, gently wrapping an arm around him and stroking his hand.

Lancelot’s total lack of response to his presence made Gawain feel uneasy, so he asked: “Should I leave?” When Lancelot didn’t respond, Gawain slowly began to move away before his arm was caught in a strong grip. Taking this as a request to stay, Gawain once again inched closer to the Lancelot. “Do you… do you want to talk about it?”

The former monk stopped crying for a moment, stating in a bitter tone of voice: “Which part of it? The one where I killed my own people?” He sat up. Despite the darkness, Gawain could sense his glare. “ _Your_ people?”

“Is that why you’re crying?”

“I don’t know.” Lancelot paused. “I don’t know anything anymore. I haven’t lost control like that since I was a boy. I haven’t cried since I was a boy.” Gawain heard a noise that sounded like he had hit himself. “It’s a weakness.”

“No, it’s not,” Gawain said resolutely, with the voice he used when he commanded the Fey army. “Let me hold you.” Before he had a chance to marvel at the absurdity of the entire situation, he gently dragged Lancelot in his direction.

“I am going to hell,” Lancelot said, glumly.

“I told you before, hell doesn’t exist,” Gawain said. Well, at least if one disregarded the current situation. Gawain was pretty sure that this one counted as his own personal hell.

“That’s a sore oversight on the creator’s part.” Despite himself, Lancelot seemed to relax into Gawain’s embrace.

“I didn’t know you had a sense of humour,” Gawain remarked.

“The only humour I have is gallows’ humour.”

“Fitting,” the knight responded, desperately trying to not get distracted by the way in which Lancelot seemed to nuzzle— _nuzzle_ —him. ‘The comparison to a cat was more accurate than I realized,’ Gawain thought to himself, ‘I am doomed.’

Lancelot paused for a moment, before quietly saying: “It was beaten out of me.”

“I’m sorry about that.” Gawain continued to stroke the other’s hair.

“Don’t be,” Lancelot rapidly sat up, almost headbutting Gawain in the process, “I deserved it.”

Gawain dragged him back into his arms, before stating: “No child deserves to be beaten.”

“Perhaps I was the first who did.”

“I doubt that very much.” Gawain leaned back a bit as the absurdity of the situation caught up with him. Here he was, being nuzzled by the Weeping Monk—or the person who used to be the Weeping Monk—and trading quips with him. “You know, you’re not quite like what I expected.”

“Likewise.”

“What… what did you expect?”

“For once, I didn’t think you would go about offering hugs to your enemies,” Lancelot responded. Gawain was delighted to notice that something, some kind of dam, seemed to have broken within him.

“Former enemies,” Gawain corrected.

“You know, I quite liked capturing you,” Lancelot said, sounding playful.

Gawain stopped breathing. Was this… where they flirting? “Did you now?”

“Yes,” Lancelot said in a sincere tone of voice. “I did.” He paused. “I didn’t know back then that you were a better person than Father.” He took a deep breath. “How can that be? He’s a man of Church and you’re, you’re not even Christian.”

The knight released his breath. No, not flirting. Just Lancelot’s continued crisis of faith. “Perhaps that has nothing to do with goodness?”

“But how can it not? They are serving God. They are closest to Him.” He paused for a long time. “God doesn’t answer to me.”

“Hmm-hmm,” Gawain said, not really knowing how to respond to any of these revelations.

“Does He answer to you?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t tried,” Gawain said.

“Aren’t you afraid of damnation?”

“I told you, hell doesn’t exist.” Gawain was starting to get tired of Lancelot’s concern about the afterlife.

“Hmm.” Lancelot paused for a while, allowing Gawain to listen to his breathing pattern, his heartbeat. “I am willing to take your word for it.”

“Are you?”

“Christ died and got resurrected. So did you.”

“So, basically, I’m your replacement for Christ?” Gawain stifled a laugh. “Be glad that hell doesn’t exist or you’d be headed straight for it.”

“What I mean to say that perhaps it’s not that special. Given that you did the same.”

“Is that supposed to be an insult?” Gawain was starting to feel dizzy with how fast the conversation moved and shifted.

Lancelot tapped against his chest: “Believe me, if I tried to insult you, you’d know it.” He let go of Gawain. “Thank you.” Leaning back, he said: “I think we should go back to sleep.”

Naturally, Gawain couldn’t fall back asleep for the rest of the night as he replayed their entire conversation in his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the lovely comments, I really appreciate them! I have a full week ahead so it might be a bit before I next update this fic. Hope you enjoy this chapter!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience as I was wrestling with this next chapter. Let me tell you, these characters don't make it easy...
> 
> Content warning for implied/referenced rape/non-con.

After talking to Gawain in the middle of the night, Lancelot was glad that he could pretend to be asleep. It was obvious to the Ashman that the other Fey was lying awake but thankfully, Gawain seemed to be unaware that Lancelot was just as sleepless.

The former monk didn’t know what to make of their interaction. Had he really let the Green Knight—someone he had hunted just a few days ago—hug him? And why had it felt so good?

His ruminations were interrupted when he picked up a scent that shouldn’t be here. Paladins. At least two, coming from the right.

“Gawain,” Lancelot hissed, “two Paladins are coming.”

Gawain shot up, his hand reaching for his weapon. “I want them alive so we can ask questions.”

Lancelot nodded. “We do this on our own, then,” Lancelot whispered. “I need a weapon, too.” He paused to evaluate the situation. “We still have a few moments.”

“I only have one sword,” Gawain said. “Take this.” He pointed the hilt of a large knife towards Lancelot. 

Wordlessly, Lancelot accepted the weapon. His sense of smell told him that the Paladins had gotten closer. He put his finger to his lips and indicated for Gawain to follow him out of the tent.  
  


* * *

  
Gawain crouched behind Lancelot to get a read of the situation.

They found themselves under a canopy of stars. The moon was full, making it easier to see all the other tents (of Fey and Raiders alike) below them. Their little impromptu camp had been set up in a beach valley, which wasn’t ideal for defense but allowed easier access to the Raider’s ships, a stream of freshwater and a complex cave system that could be used for escape. The best warriors of their group had been placed near the rim of the valley, to fend off potential intruders.

When they snuck past the next tent to the right, Gawain noticed that the Fey who was supposed to be on guard had fallen asleep. He took note of who it was—Marek—so he could have a word with him about his duties later on.

Lancelot let him further and further away from the camp, before bidding him to hide behind a bush, communicating only through touch and, where the moonlight allowed, gestures. Once Gawain had crouched down, Lancelot snuck off into another direction.

The two Paladins were nowhere to be seen. For a moment, Gawain wondered if he had made a mistake by following the former monk away from the camp, arming him, and then letting him run off to gods-know-where. Then the voices drifted nearer. “… it has to be here somewhere,” said one voice.

“Let us just find the location and report it back. Then we can return with our Brothers and take…,” the other voice, which had sounded more distant than the first, stopped mid-sentence.

Gawain took that as his sign to attack as well.  
  


* * *

  
Lancelot didn’t wish to reveal his secrets but Brother Andrew, who was on his knees in front of him, seemed to have no such qualms.

“Shut up,” Lancelot said, roughly grabbing the Paladin’s hair to pull his head back.

“Oh, did I say something I shouldn’t have?” Brother Andrew’s smirk was illuminated by the moonlight. “The two of us together in the night. Bring up some memories?”

“Stop talking.” Lancelot’s grip on his knife tightened. He was starting to feel sick to his stomach.

“But there is so much to talk about.” The Paladin blew a kiss in Lancelot’s direction. “You know, I still think about it whenever I tend to myself.” He paused. “I bet the others do, too. You should…”

Lancelot’s knife sliced Brother Andrew’s throat.  
  


* * *

  
Gawain had heard enough. Questioning the middle-aged Paladin in front of him had been a waste of time. From the man’s prior conversation with his companion it had been obvious that the two of them had been acting alone. Which also meant that he had to get rid of the man in front of him.

As much as Gawain hated the Paladins for what they were doing to his people, he never enjoyed killing in cold blood… which is what he would have to do. The Green Knight almost regretted that the Paladin in front of him wasn’t putting up a fight as that would make it easier to put a sword through his chest. The rustling of leaves shook Gawain out of his thoughts. Upon noticing a silhouette he immediately recognized as Lancelot, the Green Knight relaxed once again.

When Lancelot got close enough, the demure Paladin in front of Gawain seemed to spring to life. “Ooh, it’s you.” He leered in the former monk’s direction in a way that made Gawain’s stomach drop.

“Be quiet, Paladin,” Gawain advised, noticing how the man made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

“Afraid I upset your little plaything, Sir knight?” The Paladin locked eyes with Gawain before gesturing with his head in Lancelot’s direction. “Believe me, he’s had worse.” He paused. “Although that was still too good for Fey-scum like him.” The Paladin spit on the ground. A mere moment later, Gawain’s fist connected with his chin.

Internally, Gawain was shaking with anger. He hadn’t had the time to sort through the suggestions the Paladin had voiced but some of its implications were quite clear. The Green Knight turned to Lancelot and asked in his coldest voice: “Do you want to kill him or do you want me to do it?”

“He’s all yours,” Lancelot said in a rough, quiet voice.

“Oh, but that’s where you are mistaken, sweetheart,” the Paladin piped up. “You’re all his now. And don’t for a moment believe the Green Knight will show you and your deviance as much leniency as we did.”

Gawain ended him more quickly than he deserved. For a few moments, the two Fey stood wordlessly in front of the dead body until Gawain came back to his senses. “Come,” he said in Lancelot’s direction. “It’s been a long night. We shall wake up the leaders and tell them what happened. Someone else can take care of the bodies.”

“How did you know I had killed him?”

“Your tunic is drenched in blood.”  
  


* * *

  
Lancelot followed Gawain, feeling an increasing sense of dread. After having spoken to the camp’s leadership, they had been handed a fresh set of clothes and been sent away to “get cleaned up.” The two Fey hadn’t spoken a word to each other since they had left the two bodies behind and Lancelot feared what would happen once the silence broke.

“We’re here,” Gawain stopped. The sun was just rising, bathing the stream in front of them in a beautiful golden light. He turned towards Lancelot who focused his attention on a small robin that was perched on a tree. “I can give you some privacy if you want.”

Lancelot cleared his throat. “That won’t be necessary.”

“As you wish.” With swift, practiced gestures, Gawain took off his clothes and rushed towards the stream. Lancelot continued to stay put as if frozen on the spot. Eventually, Gawain, who by now was halfway submerged in the water, turned around: “Are you not coming?”

“I…,” Lancelot cleared his throat again, “I have a question.”

Gawain looked surprised but continued to splash water on his body. “What is it?”

“Are you… are you going to do what Brother Jonas suggested?”

Gawain stilled. “Brother Jonas is the creep I killed, I take it?” Lancelot nodded. The Green Knight tried to make eye contact, which Lancelot studiously avoided. “Are you asking me if I will turn you into my plaything?” Lancelot wasn’t sure what to make of the tone in the other Fey’s voice but he nodded. The Green Knight stilled before vehemently shaking his head. “That is… I would never do that to you.” He paused, before spitting: “That is wrong.”

“I deserved it,” Lancelot said, feeling the familiar sense of shame.

“Why is that?” This time, Lancelot picked up on the undertone of danger in Gawain’s voice. Strangely enough, it didn’t seem directed towards him.

“I like to…,” Lancelot stopped, not sure if he would be able to get the words out, “I like to look at men.” He paused. “Just like I, like I like to look at you.” He swallowed. “It’s why they did it.”

“I can assure you, that’s not why they did it.” Gawain ran his fingers through his wet hair. “They did it because they are sick, evil people.” He waded in the direction of the shore. “Pass me the towel, please.” Lancelot came out of his frozen state for long enough to throw the towel in his direction. The Green Knight strut past him, barely covered by the towel. Turning towards Lancelot, Gawain said: “You are welcome to look at me anytime you want. I won’t touch you,” he paused, “unless you want me to.”


	6. Chapter 6

Gawain threw back the flap of his tent and stormed inside. He was so done with everything… and the day had just begun!

Internally, Gawain went through the list of everything he had been forced to endure in the last few hours: sleep-deprivation, calming down a former enemy prone to nighttime terrors, cuddling with said former enemy who was indirectly responsible for the death of his former lover (and unfortunately happened to be rather attractive which had made it that much harder to keep the cuddling platonic), narrowly preventing a catastrophe by catching two Paladins before they could report the camp’s location back to their Brothers, finding out from said Paladins about what had been done to Lancelot, only to then have his former-enemy-absolutely-not-turned-love-interest all but flat-out ask him if he was planning to turn him into his, well, sex slave.

And all of that had happened on the back of having been tortured to death and resurrected.

Gawain wanted a drink. Or three. But of course, as the leader of the Fey warriors who were, after all, still in the middle of fighting for their survival, he felt obliged to keep a sober head at all times. So, he decided to settle for the next best thing.

“I’ll take a nap,” he announced to Lancelot, who had been regarding Gawain with wide eyes ever since they had run into those blasted Paladins. Gawain didn’t quite know what to do about Lancelot’s obvious fear of him. But surely, being sound asleep should make him look unthreatening to the former monk?

“Okay,” Lancelot said in a quiet voice. “Should I lie down as well?”

“Yes,” snapped Gawain. Upon seeing Lancelot turn pale, he corrected himself: “I mean, if you want to. Or stay up. Whatever you want.” Gawain plopped himself down on his bedroll, grateful that he wasn’t wearing any armour.

“I… I think I would like to lie down with you.” Lancelot briefly made eye contact with Gawain, before looking away.

“Suit yourself.” Gawain rolled to his side and was ready to fall asleep when he felt an arm snake around him. “What are you doing?” He turned his head, only to stare right into Lancelot’s eyes which really shouldn’t look as beautiful as they did.

“Keeping you company.” Lancelot started to run his hand down Gawain’s stomach. Gawain stilled. As much as his treacherous body seemed to like the other Fey’s company, something about this felt entirely off.

Gawain stopped Lancelot’s hand from moving any further. “Why are you doing this?”

“I thought you wanted this.”

Gawain sighed. “Not… not like this.”

“But,” Lancelot said in a confused tone, “I noticed you looking at me earlier.”

“You did?” Gawain internally cursed himself. He’d tried so hard to keep his eyes anywhere else.

“It’s always easiest to find the things you most try to hide.” Lancelot paused. “But it appears my perception was mistaken and you don’t want me.” He took his arm away and turned around.

Sensing Lancelot’s hurt energy, Gawain turned around and addressed the back of Lancelot’s head: “I do… want you, I mean. But I only want this if you also want it.” He paused. “And right now, you don’t.”

Lancelot turned back around. “Of course I want this.” He glared at Gawain, looking defiant.

“Oh yeah?” Gawain propped himself up on his elbows. “Then tell me what you want me to do to you.”

Lancelot’s gaze dropped down on the ground as he considered the question. Eventually, he said in a small voice: “I want you to hold me.”

“Oh.” For the felt hundredth time since meeting the former monk, Gawain’s heart felt like it burst open. “I can… I can do that.” He shifted around and offered his open arms to Lancelot.

A few moments later, both Fey were sound asleep.  
  


* * *

  
When Lancelot awoke later in the day, he panicked. What was he doing in the arms of the Green Knight? Lancelot scrambled to get to a seating position.

“Is something the matter?” Gawain asked, still half-asleep on his back.

The former monk felt an increasing sense of dread. “This… this is wrong!”

“What is wrong?” The Green Knight was rubbing his eyes.

“Us.” Lancelot looked down on him. “We can’t do this!” As much as he secretly wanted to.

“Can’t do what?” Gawain yawned. “Sleep?” He paused. “Yes, that’s the feeling I’ve been getting, too.”

“Be in each other’s arms like that.” Lancelot wondered if he really had to point this out to the other? “It’s a sin!”

The other Fey propped himself up on his elbows: “Is this another Church thing?” He threw Lancelot a challenging look. “Does that rule come before or after the order to kill all Fey within sight?” Lancelot flinched while Gawain laid back down. “It’s not a sin in Fey culture.”

“But God doesn’t want us to do this.” Lancelot distinctly recalled some of Father Carden’s lectures on the subject. They had left a lasting impression.

“How would you know?” Gawain opened one eye to look at him. “I thought your god didn’t talk to you.”

Lancelot sputtered. “He… doesn’t.”

“So how do you know?”

“Father Carden…”

“Oh, the piece of shit who fed you lies and twisted your mind?”

“He… he loved me!” The words sounded hollow even to Lancelot himself.

“Did he?” Gawain asked.

The sincerity in Gawain’s voice broke something in Lancelot and for the first time, he acknowledged the truth to someone else: “No, he didn’t. I was just a tool he used.”

“How do you know he was telling you the truth about sins?”

“I don’t know,” Lancelot acknowledged. It was an unsettling feeling to not be able to tell right from wrong.

“But here’s the thing: you do know.” Gawain grabbed his hand. “Tell me, how did it feel to fall sleep in my arms?”

Lancelot paused as he recalled the sensation. “It felt good. Warm… like home.”

“And how did it feel when Brother Salt was about to torture Squirrel?”

The former monk scrunched up his face as he recalled the sensation. “It felt… it felt wrong.”

“How did it feel when you rescued Squirrel?”

“Good. Like I was doing something right.”

“See?” Gawain beamed at Lancelot for reasons he didn’t quite understand. “All you have to do is listen to your feelings. Good feelings: not a sin, bad feelings: sin.”

“Hmm.” Lancelot pondered this. “So I don’t need to listen to what Father Carden said. Instead, I should listen to my feelings?”

“You got it!” Gawain gave Lancelot a friendly punch to the shoulder.

“Is that what you do?” The other Fey seemed like a good person to Lancelot and he was curious to learn how he made his decisions.

“Yes.”

“Is that why you wouldn’t do what Brother Jonas suggested?”

“Yes,” Gawain replied, “what he did was wrong.” He paused. “Very, very wrong.”

“Oh.” Lancelot sat there for a while, considering Gawain’s statement.


	7. Chapter 7

Over the following days and weeks, Gawain fell into a strange but comfortable rhythm with Lancelot. During the day, the knight would sometimes find an excuse to take off his shirt… he had ointments to apply, tunics to change (even though he only owned 3 pairs), or it was simply to0 warm (even though fall was nearing). On these occasions, Lancelot’s eyes would follow him across the room, something Gawain pretended not to notice. They would never speak about it.

At night, they would be on their separate bedrolls, until Lancelot’s nightmare brought him into Gawain’s arms. This was also something they would never speak about.

Until, one day, Lancelot disrupted their carefully constructed routine. The two of them were sitting on a bench in their tent, having a stew for dinner, when Lancelot asked: “What is it like to be in love?”

Gawain choked on his stew. His eyes teared up and he started coughing. When he finally felt better, he asked: “What?”

Lancelot leaned forward, eyes shining in the candlelight. For once, he looked just as dangerous as he had in his previous life as the Weeping Monk: “What.Is.It.Like.To.Be.In.Love?”

The Fey’s expectant stare left Gawain temporarily speechless so they both awkwardly looked at each other for a while. Well, Gawain supposed that it was only him who felt awkward about it. Lancelot looked like he was on the hunt. “ _Umm_ …,” Gawain stammered, cursing himself for his lost ability to find words, “it’s… _umm_ … nice. Definitely nice.”

“ _Nice?_ ” The former monk leaned even further into Gawain’s personal space.

“Yes.” Gawain cleared his throat, working on regaining his composure. “What has you ask?”

“Pym.”

Gawain’s heart felt like it dropped on the floor, for reasons he refused to acknowledge. “What about her?”

“She’s…,” Lancelot leaned over, now appearing more conspiratorially than actively threatening, “… last night, I saw her kissing the Red Spear.”

“ _What?_ ” Having known the redhead from when she was a child, Gawain was confused. “You mean, in a friendly way?” That couldn’t be right, Gawain’s brain corrected him. The Red Spear didn’t do friendly.

“Yes, _very_ friendly,” Lancelot said. “The Red Spear’s hands were on her…,” he pointed towards his chest area.

Gawain choked again. This was an image he didn’t need. “Oh.”

Lancelot seemed impervious to the struggle he was putting Gawain through, for he continued: “She looked… _happy_.”

“I somehow doubt this very much,” Gawain said, pointedly, “this is the Red Spear we’re talking about.”

“Yes!” Lancelot almost jumped off the bench in excitement, startling Gawain. “And she was happy.” He paused and stared at Gawain. “Don’t you see what this means?”

“Umm, no?”

“Perhaps there is hope for me.” He paused. “Perhaps I will also be happy if I fall in love.”

Gawain blinked. And blinked again. “I see.”

“So, tell me, what is it like to be in love?”

* * *

  
Lancelot laid down on his bedroll, pondering Gawain’s words. He wasn’t sure he would be ready to fall in love. It sounded… it sounded like being out of control. There was so much loss he heard between the lines in Gawain’s story. And, well, he wasn’t sure he would be able to cope with losing anything he cared about ever again.

Later in the night, after he had once again woken up drenched in sweat from a nightmare, he once again found himself in Gawain’s arms. ‘This, on the other hand,’ Lancelot thought, ‘this I can do.’  
  


* * *

  
Gawain had almost put the traumatizing conversation with Lancelot—there was nothing quite like talking about a man you loved to someone you’re _definitely_ not interested in who also happened to be responsible for said man’s death—out of his mind when the former monk ruined yet another dinner for him.

“What’s it like to lay with someone who’s in love with you?” Lancelot stared at him expectantly.

“Lay?” Gawain prayed to the Hidden that this conversation was not going where he thought it was going.

“Yes, lay. Bed. Tumble with.” Lancelot paused. “And don’t tell me it’s… _umm… good_.”

Gawain coughed. “I… I would never do that.” In fact, this was exactly what he had planned to say. He paused, as he considered what to do next. “I don’t know what to say.” He paused again. “It’s hard to describe.” Inspiration hit him. “It’s just one of those things you need to experience for yourself.” Triumphantly, he put the spoon on the table next to his bowl.

“Okay.” Lancelot leaned back.

“Okay?” Gawain didn’t like the glint he saw in Lancelot’s eyes.

“Yes.” Lancelot got up. “Let’s do it.”

“Let’s do what?” Gawain’s brain resolutely refused to acknowledge the situation.

“Have a tumble,” Lancelot said while wrestling with his tunic.

“Who?”

“You and me, obviously.” Lancelot abandoned his attempts to remove his tunic. Gawain exhaled in relief, only to still in shock as Lancelot reached for _Gawain’s_ belt.

“Umm… definitely not.” Gawain bit his lip. He wouldn’t do this. No matter how much he wanted to.

“Why not?” Lancelot still held onto his belt but at least stopped trying to take it off for now.

Gawain cleared his throat. “You have been treated wrong.”

“So I can’t be treated right now?”

“That’s… that’s not what I meant,” Gawain said.

“Yes, it does.” Lancelot let go of the belt and drew himself up to his height.

“You’ve just been through a lot.”

“Indeed.” Lancelot looked at Gawain, a challenge in his eyes. “And I’m not some untouched maiden whose honour you need to protect.”

“I…”

Lancelot shushed Gawain. “I could kill you single-handedly.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Gawain looked at the other man with wide eyes, wondering if exchanging threats was supposed to be Lancelot’s version of foreplay.

“So you admit it?”

“What?” Gawain retraced their conversation. “No, absolutely not.” He paused. “You’d need at least both hands to kill me.” With those words, he tried to turn away. As a knight, he’d learn how to take a win… to end a confrontation when he had the upper hand.

“Gawain,” Lancelot said, in a softer ton, while reaching for his hand. “I have been through a lot.”

“You’ve been through hell,” Gawain said, his voice breaking.

“I thought hell didn’t exist.” Lancelot had a small smile on his lips.

“Not in the afterlife.” Gawain paused. “I didn’t say anything about what comes before that.”

They stood in silence for a while, Lancelot still holding his hand. “I… I want some nice memories.” He paused. “I don’t understand why you don’t want to give them to me.” Lancelot’s face sunk. “Actually, I do.” He released Gawain’s hand and turned away. “I have done terrible things. You might be in love with me but that doesn’t mean you can look past that.”

“Wait, _what?_ ” Gawain felt a sense of panic. “What makes you think I am in love with you?” He hadn’t even acknowledged that fact to himself so how dare Lancelot point it out to him.

“It’s obvious.” Lancelot turned around. “Your smell.”

“My smell?” Gawain panicked even more. Was he smelling badly? It hadn’t been that long since his last bath, had it?

“I can smell it on you. You want me. And you’re in love with me.”

“ _Erm_ …,” Gawain stalled while considering whether he wanted to deny the allegation or not.

Lancelot pointed towards his nose. “It’s obvious. I can smell emotions on people so don’t try to deny it. You were attracted to me pretty much from the beginning.” He paused and sniff. “Recently, you fell in love with me.”

A hysterical laugh escaped Gawain’s chest. “So you knew all this time?”

‘Yes?”

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Gawain paused while Lancelot looked at him expectantly, “but right now, I really want to kill you.” They looked at each other for a moment before both burst out laughing. Gawain relished the look on Lancelot’s face. “See, you don’t need to be in love to be happy.”

Lancelot gave him a strange look before disappearing out of the tent, allowing Gawain to release the breath he had been holding for far too long.


	8. Chapter 8

Lancelot was grateful to be outside the tent. As he was walking around the camp in the twilight, people ignored him. Which was a step up from how he had been treated the first few days after he had finally been allowed to be out by himself.

The formed monk headed straight for a familiar oak tree. He sat down, leaning back against the tree’s rough bark and closing his eyes. As always, his friend’s presence grounded him. “I was so sure he would say yes,” Lancelot whispered.

The tree didn’t respond in words but somehow, Lancelot got its message anyway. How did he know it wasn’t a yes?

“No, no, that wasn’t a yes.” Lancelot paused. “I would know.”

The tree continued to make its case. Perhaps Lancelot _didn’t_ know. Perhaps he had only ever felt cruelty, not kindness.

“Then why would he not grant me that kindness?”

“Perhaps he wanted to make sure that you are ready for it,” a deep voice responded that most certainly did not belong to the tree. Lancelot scrambled to his feet, only to find himself face-to-face with a pair of overly-familiar eyes that shone in the last remaining light.

Blushing, Lancelot looked at the ground. “I didn’t hear you coming.”

“Or smelled me coming?” Gawain’s voice sounded teasing.

“Yes.” Lancelot nodded.

“It looks like you were distracted.” The knight leaned against the tree.

Lancelot shrugged. “I come here when I need to think.” He touched the bark carefully. “Osi doesn’t judge me.”

“Osi?” Gawain quirked an eyebrow.

“The tree,” Lancelot pointed with his head towards his friend, “that’s the name it told me.”

“Fascinating,” Gawain said, gently stroking the bark in a way that reminded Lancelot of how he himself handled Goliath. The knight paused, before continuing: “You’re more Fey than you think.”

Lancelot shrugged again. “Apparently not enough.”

“What do you mean?”

Grimacing, Lancelot forced himself to meet Gawain’s eyes: “If I were any other Fey, you would have… _you know_ … already.” Lancelot turned away from the other. “People talk.”

“But not to you?” It was an observation as much as it was a question.

“They don’t.” Lancelot nodded. “But I still hear things.” It had been painful to listen to the stories of the Green Knight’s exploits but Lancelot hadn’t been able to pry himself away from it. This was a side of Gawain that the other man had denied him so listening to second-hand stories was the only way to discover more. Lancelot stared at the ground. “You don’t ever turn anyone away who’s willing.”

Gawain sighed. “And that doesn’t tell you anything.”

“Oh, it tells me something,” Lancelot felt the heat and anger rising in his stomach, “it tells me that you see me beyond redemption.” He paused before turning back to Gawain. “Even you.”

Gawain gently shook his head. “No, that’s not it.”

“I can’t even blame you, you know,” Lancelot rambled on, the familiar feeling of shame and guilt washing over him. “I am beyond…”

Before he could finish his sentence, Lancelot was pressed against the bark and… were those Gawain’s lips on his?

“Shut up.” Gawain had already released him while Lancelot was still evaluating the situation. 

Lancelot blinked. Blinked again. “Did you just kiss me?”

“I couldn’t let you finish that sentence.” Gawain stepped back.

Recalling his tactical training, Lancelot realized that his opponent had just shown one of his fatal flaws. “I am beyond…”

This time, Gawain used significantly more force as he pressed Lancelot against the tree and once again covered his lips. Lancelot responded as well as he could to the unfamiliar situation which now also include Gawain’s tongue in his mouth. For a moment, Lancelot tensed up but the combination of the familiar bark behind him and Gawain—who somehow also smelled of Oak, and how had he not made that connection before?—relaxed his nerves. There was no danger here.

“Is this okay?” Gawain drew back and cupped his face.

Lancelot bristled at the question. “No.”

“No?” Gawain released his face and moved back further.

“No, it’s not.” Lancelot drew himself up. “It’s not enough.” He looked expectantly at Gawain. “You know what I want.”

“I… no.” Gawain resolutely shook his head.

“Then we’re done here.” Lancelot gave the tree one last pat before marching off into the forest. He had no intention of returning to their shared tent for a while.

After taking a few steps, Gawain called out to him: “Wait!” Suppressing a smile, Lancelot turned back.   
  


* * *

  
Gawain thought this was a terrible idea but Lancelot’s stubbornness (alongside with the effort it took him to keep his own hormones in check) had worn him down.

When Lancelot arrived back at the tree, Gawain realized that his heart was racing and his mouth had gone dry. This was… unexpected. With a shy smile, the knight turned to Lancelot. “So,” Gawain said.

Lancelot crossed his arms in front of him. “So.”

“I…,” Gawain started, unsure what he wanted to communicate before finally settling on: “This is hard.”

“It didn’t sound hard when it involved others.”

“I…,” the knight stared at the ground before forcing himself to make eye contact, “I’m not the same person anymore.”

“Hmm.” Lancelot uncrossed his arms.

Searching for the right words, Gawain realized they were none. “I died.”

“Oh.” Lancelot’s gaze softened at the reminder.

Gawain forced the next words out: “My first love died.” He looked at the ground. “And none of that would have happened without you.”

Lancelot stumbled back as if he had been hit in the face. Once he recovered his footing, he said quietly: “I know.”

Gawain sighed. “My new self exists because of you.” He paused. “It’s not all bad.” He reached out for Lancelot’s hand. The other Fey looked at him as if he had gone insane. “There are things I learned about life and death because of it. Important things.” Lancelot nodded at his words. “I just don’t know who I am anymore.”

The former monk responded to his words with a sad smile. “That seems to be a theme around here.”

Giving in to his desire to be closer to the other, Gawain stepped forward and enveloped Lancelot in an embrace. “Truth be told, I’m not sure I’m ready.”

Lancelot tightened his hold on Gawain. “I shouldn’t have pushed.”

“I understand why you did.” Gawain brushed over the other’s hair. “You’re finally free.” He pressed a soft kiss on Lancelot’s jaw. “And it seems like I’m withholding something from you that I freely give to everyone else.” He moved his head back so he could look into Lancelot’s eyes. “I’m not withholding anything from you.”

“I know.” Lancelot’s eyes shined with what looked like tears.

Gawain stepped back, remembering why he had called the other back. “Do you still want…?”

“It’s… okay.” Lancelot forced a smile. “We don’t have to.”

“Do you trust me?” Gawain suddenly knew what to do but he didn’t want to spook the other man.

“Yes.”

Gawain slowly reached for the other’s belt, giving Lancelot plenty of time to withdraw. The former monk breathed deeply, leaning back against the tree. “Let me.” Gawain sunk to his knees.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for implied/referenced rape/non-con (nothing graphic) and Lancelot's twisted thought process.

“That was…,” Lancelot was still coming down from the glorious high and his words were failing him. Gawain, in front of him on his knees, looked up at him. In the moonlight that now illuminated the area, Lancelot saw a huge smile on his face. Leaning his head back against the familiar bark of the tree, the former monk tried to order his thoughts into a semblance of coherence. He didn’t succeed. Hesitantly, Lancelot tried on the unfamiliar words: “I think…,” he paused as tears filled his eyes, “I think…I finally felt His Grace.”

Gawain’s smile dropped. “I’m don’t think the god of your church has anything to do with it.” He got up from his knees with a swift, practiced motion.

Lancelot blinked away the tears. He wasn’t sure what had happened. Had he said something wrong? The tree tried to communicate something to him but Lancelot was too, _too emotionally overwhelmed_ by finally, finally, finally having received a sign that there was something to the things he had beaten into him. He looked at the ground, overwhelmed with the vulnerability he felt. As quickly as possible, he tucked himself away while saying quietly: “I’ve never felt anything like that before.”

“Oh.” The face of the other Fey softened. Lancelot was grateful that Gawain didn’t say anything beyond that single word of acknowledgment. His silence allowed the sacred space between them to expand.

“I didn’t…,” Lancelot said, his throat constricting as emotions threatened to overwhelm him, “I didn’t think this was the path to God.” He paused as he considered the thought that was on his mind. “But I guess it makes sense.” He swallowed, the next words feeling like bile in his throat: “So that’s why Brother Jonas and all of them did what they did, it brought them closer to God.”   
  


* * *

  
Gawain wasn’t sure whether he wanted to throw up or punch someone (preferably a Paladin). At this point, Lancelot’s twisted thought process should no longer surprise him… but it still did, every single time. He said, voice quivering with badly suppressed anger: “This was _nothing_ like what happened with them.” Lancelot stared at him with wide eyes, prompting the knight to elaborate: “This was freely given and freely received.” Frustrated by the lack of response in Lancelot’s face, Gawain lamely added: “It’s not the same.”

For a few agonizing moments, Lancelot didn’t answer. Gawain got more and more agitated, replaying the situation. Had he misjudged things? Eventually, Lancelot asked in a small voice: “Was it bad for you?”

“ _What?_ ” Gawain tried—and failed—to keep the anger out of his voice. He knew his anger wouldn’t be helpful but there was only so much he could take.

“Just… did you hate doing it?” Lancelot avoided his eyes.

“No!” Gawain stretched his legs that were still a bit stiff. “I really liked it.” He spoked the truth but Gawain realized that he had a hard time sounding convincing, after what had just transpired. He plastered an encouraging smile on for Lancelot’s benefit but the other Fey was still staring at the ground.

“Why… why would you like something so awful?” He exhaled sharply.

Gawain took a deep breath, steeling himself for another tiresome discussion with Lancelot: “I like it because I like you.” He smiled at Lancelot, a genuine smile, and Lancelot briefly met his eyes. “And because I like bringing you pleasure.” He paused while studying Lancelot’s face. “It’s a way to express love.”

“So… this was different than…?” Lancelot’s voice trailed out but Gawain knew enough of the backstory to fill in the blanks.

“Dear Hidden, yes!” Gawain exclaimed. “You didn’t force me, did you?” Gawain hadn’t meant for that to be a real question but the expression of Lancelot’s face alerted him that the other Fey was treating it as such.

“I... I pushed you.”

“You told me it’s okay if we don’t.” Gawain had felt pushed before that but he didn’t think it wise to discuss finer nuances with Lancelot when the former monk was still so obviously struggling with differentiating between a violation and something that was freely given. “Did anyone ever tell you that? Gave you a choice?”

Lancelot shook his head. “No.”

“Can you see that this was different?” Gawain asked, as patiently as possible.

Slowly, Lancelot nodded. “Yes, I think so.”

“How this was,” Gawain gestured between them, “that’s how it’s supposed to be.” Lancelot nodded. “In Fey culture, we don’t tolerate it when someone does what Brother Jonas did.” He paused. “And others.”

Lancelot nodded. “So do you think God would see it that way? Would they not have experienced God’s Grace in the way I just did?”

Motivated by the sudden desire to bang his head against something solid, Gawain looked past Lancelot’s shoulder at the tree. He wanted to argue with Lancelot that it probably wasn’t some form of divine grace that he had experienced, just an ecstatic moment brought upon by a lover. But his life had taught him that to change someone’s perspective, one first had to accept it. So instead, he asked: “Why is it so important to you to experience that?”

Lancelot bit his lip, uncertainly looking at the floor. “It would mean that I’m not beyond hope. That there’s a small sliver of hope I could be saved from my sins, so that I don’t need to experience eternal damnation.”

This, this was it! Gawain triumphed internally as he realized that his strategic preparation would come in handy at this exact moment. Looking straight into Lancelot’s eyes, he said: “You do not need to be saved from your sins.”

The former monk sighed. “With all due respect, what do you know about my faith?”

“I talked to Morgana,” Gawain said. “She’s spent years in a nunnery.”

“I know.”

“She told me that Christ,” the name felt unfamiliar on Gawain’s tongue but he persisted, “died for our sins.”

“The sins of humans,” Lancelot corrected, “and I’m not human. Christ didn’t atone for my sins.”

For a moment, Gawain cursed that his plan had seemed to fail. Then, a stroke of genius hit him: “Yes, but I died and came back, too. How do you know that doesn’t atone for the sins of all Fey?”

Lancelot blinked, looking like he had been struck by lightning: “ _What?_ ”

Gawain pulled himself up to his full height. “I would happily die for my people. I died and came back. Surely that has to count for something.”

“ _WHAT!?!_ ” Lancelot stared at Gawain with wide eyes. “Did you just compare yourself to Christ?”

“Well, you did call out to your god a lot when I…,” Gawain cleared his throat, “ _attended_ to you.”  
  


* * *

  
It would have been fair to say that Lancelot had never been this confused in his life. Gawain’s argument was preposterous—who did he think he was, comparing himself to the saviour of humanity?—but he had died… and come back to life. That was a rather impressive accomplishment. 

Gawain also seemed to have the patience of a saint—who else would have shown kindness to an enemy who delivered him into the hands of a torturer? Who else would have kept his secret to protect him, even while being put through excruciating pain? And who would be able to allow him to feel the Grace of God, after men of the church had failed?

When he put all these thoughts together, he arrived at a terrifying conclusion: the saviour of his people had just made rather intimate contact with a particular part of his anatomy.

Lancelot weakly sunk against the tree, his knees giving out under him. Looking at Gawain, he said: “I think I would like a moment to myself, please.”

When Lancelot returned to their shared tent many hours later, Gawain showed him the light.   
  
  
\- THE END AND A BEGINNING - 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah, Lancelot now basically thinks Gawain is the "Fey Jesus." Characters can have a way of surprising you and I actually didn't see that one coming, did you? 
> 
> If coming from anyone but Lancelot, the last part would be crack... but with Lancelot, I could actually see him having an inner dialogue as crazy as that. 
> 
> Also, this kinda feels complete so we've come to the end of this particular journey.


End file.
